Amid the wave of mass patriotism during the early years of World War I, the image of children was exploited on an unprecedented scale throughout the territory of what was then the Russian Empire. Of course, all of this was used purely for propaganda purposes.
Postcards took the lead—after all, they were inexpensive and very popular among the broadest segments of the population. They depicted children in military uniforms, as well as military scenes featuring them. In this way, they seemed to subconsciously convey to people the message that war was nothing to be afraid of—that it was a trivial problem that even a child could handle. Bright colors and, of course, the text also played a significant role in downplaying the tragedy…
The image of a child dressed in a military uniform was used not only in the Russian Empire, but also in France, Germany, Austria, and Great Britain.
And if all those children had remained only on postcards, I would have been genuinely happy. However, literally from the very first days of the war, boys and girls aged 8 and older, swept up in a wave of patriotism, began—in the truest sense of the word—to flock to the active army.
The numbers speak for themselves. For example, in Kyiv alone during January and February 1915, the railway police detained 214 young volunteers, including 11 girls. Over time, this became such a serious problem that newspapers of the time reported on the issue as follows:
Their wounds are pointless, and their deaths are pointless. Children have no place in war. They need to go to school… Isn’t it strange that the Russian Empire, which can field 16 million soldiers, has children in its ranks! If such a little boy were to be taken prisoner by the Germans, they would use him to show their troops: “Look how exhausted they are! They’re sending children to war!”
But all these detentions and outcries did not prevent the use of children who had made it to the front lines for propaganda purposes. Many newspapers of that time were literally filled with photos like these.
Our favorite city was no exception in this regard. In the fall of 1914, quite a few media outlets reported extensively:
A 12-Year-Old Hero.
At Kyiv Station, a 12-year-old boy named Andrei Mironenko, who had arrived from the theater of war, caught the public’s attention. Andrei had been living in Kharkiv, but when the war began, he fled his home alone and made his way to the theater of war. After many hardships, the boy ended up in one of the frontline regiments. And he soon became indispensable: during battle, under a hail of bullets, he fearlessly carried ammunition through the trenches, immediately bandaged the wounded, and dragged them to safety. But one day, something happened to him. He went out on a reconnaissance mission, fell behind his unit, and got lost. He wandered for a long time, searching for the road. At first, gunfire could be heard here and there. Then everything fell silent, and night fell. The boy made his way through a small grove and saw a hill ahead. He climbed it and found himself right in the line of fire of an enemy battery. But it was all right; he didn’t lose his composure even then. He listened: everyone was asleep. He crept on his stomach between the sleeping soldiers toward the guns, unscrewed the breechblocks on two cannons, and just as quietly crawled back to the woods. By morning, he found the road and returned to his regiment with the trophies. The young hero was awarded the Order of St. George, 4th Class.
Sounds great, doesn’t it? And I dare say that after reading this article, quite a few young residents of Kharkiv were inspired and, deciding to become superheroes just like Andryusha, flocked in droves to join the active military. Afterward, their loving parents literally flooded the military authorities with letters asking for help in locating their missing children. But, alas, such stories were never published in the newspapers. Quite a few archival documents of this kind have survived to this day. For example, on March 8, 1916, Stepan Melnik, a 17-year-old native of the village of Rubanovka in the Valkovsky District, ran off to the front. A month later, his father wrote to the army’s general headquarters:
Petition.
My son, Stepan Vasilyevich Melnik, aged 17, left on March 8 to join the active army. I am deeply distressed by his departure, knowing that he does not have an order from the military authorities to enlist, as he has not yet reached the legal age for military service. I doubt whether he will be of any use in defending the Fatherland, or whether he will merely risk his life due to his inexperience in military affairs. He graduated from the City School in 1914, and most recently, prior to his departure, served in the Valkovskaya Zemstvo Administration, where I also serve as a clerk in the Military Department: therefore, I dare to ask the General Staff not to refuse to inform me as soon as possible—if possible, by the first mail—regarding:
1) Did he report to Headquarters?
2) Was he accepted by the military command, and where has he been assigned (please provide a detailed mailing address)?
3) If he did not report in person, is there any information available about him?
4) If not, is it possible to inquire about him?
5) Whether or not there is any information, please let me know so that my family may be put at ease.
Other letters from parents searching for their children are written in a far more emotional tone—so much so that one can feel the full horror and tragedy of that dreadful and forgotten war, which also affected Kharkiv. They also contain quite a few details about the fugitives themselves. In 1917, Yakov Aronovich Aronchik, a resident of our city living at Petinskaya Street, 28, wrote the following while asking the authorities for help in finding his son:
On May 18 of this year, my son Lazar Aronchik, aged 13, went missing from Kharkiv. From the information I have gathered, it appears that on that same day—May 18—my son left Kharkiv with one of the marching companies heading to the active army.
Given that my eldest son is still serving in the active army, my second son returned from the war as a disabled veteran, and my third son was killed at the very beginning of the campaign, I humbly beg you to grant me this great favor and take measures to ensure the speedy return home of my young son Lazar, for only his presence sustains my health and life and that of my wife.
My son Lazar is dressed in boots, black pants (made of devil’s leather), and a camouflage-colored shirt, fastened with a leather belt bearing a badge with the letters “G.B.V.” (Baroness Witte’s Gymnasium). On his head is a uniform cap with a blue brim and white gymnasium trim.
Another boy, Solomon Pindrik, 12 years old, fled along with my son Lazar; he is dressed in black pants, a gray shirt, and a blue cap
It is truly heartening that some of these stories did, after all, have a happy ending (at least for the parents). For example, on August 19, 1916, a resident of the town of Akhtyrka submitted a petition with the following content:
My underage son, Nikolai Pavlovich Bondarenko, aged 17, has deserted to join the active army against my will; therefore, I humbly request that Your Excellency issue an order for my son Nikolai to be returned to me, to the city of Okhtyrka in the Kharkiv Governorate, thereby bringing peace of mind to both me and my ailing wife. My eldest son, Ivan Bondarenko, serves as a second lieutenant in the 69th Artillery Brigade. I do not know where my son Nikolai, who fled on August 11 of this year, has gone
In the end, a few days later, Bondarenko, the runaway from Okhtyrka, was apprehended by the police and returned to his parents.
However, among the hundreds, if not thousands, of documents of this kind, one can also find some rather unusual stories, texts, and even requests. For example, a few months before the revolutionary events of 1917, a 12-year-old high school student named Seletsky ran away to join the active army; his father, a second lieutenant in the 4th Company of the 124th Convalescent Unit (a military unit to which lightly wounded officers and enlisted men in need of outpatient treatment were assigned) Ivan Antonovich Seletsky also submitted a petition. However, his father, who did not even mention his son’s name, did not ask the army leadership to return the child to Kharkiv at all.
Your Excellency, I humbly request that you issue an order to determine in which unit a 12-year-old boy, a second-year student at the Kobelyak Gymnasium, is currently stationed; he should have a student ID card. On June 13, according to his own classmate, he and another boy of the same age left for the front. He has long wanted to go there, even when I was still at my post. I am currently wounded, and he decided to desert and go to the front on his own. I humbly request that you consider, if he would be useful for service in reconnaissance—which is what he has always aspired to—to allow him to remain in the regiment and be sent on reconnaissance missions. If, however, his regiment does not accept him, he will take his own life, because he will be afraid to return home.
Looking at all these numerous news reports, photographs, postcards, and missing-person notices, one cannot help but recall one of the “epitaphs of war,” written in 1919 by Sir Joseph Rudyard Kipling, the brilliant and beloved author of *The Jungle Book*:
When anyone asks why we died,
tell them—it’s all because our fathers lied to us
- About the military pilot school and the airfield in Kharkiv… - 04.11.2020
- Kharkiv Artisans and the 1887 Exhibition - 17.08.2020
- Nikanor Savich—A Political Career by Mistake - 13.07.2020